One Day
by Mestizaa
Summary: Missing scenes from Mrs Hughes' health scare. Complete.


_(AKA three things that might have happened, and one that probably didn't but let's pretend that it did, okay?)_

_I feel like this straddles the line between T and M. There are lot of breasts and touching of breasts; it's not necessarily a sexual thing. It's about Mrs Hughes facing her mortality (in a very unedited, unbeta-ed, fanfic.)  
_

* * *

**One Day**

* * *

** 1\. Elsie**

Elsie Hughes stands in front of her mirror, her corset and dress open, hanging from her shoulders. Her hand runs over her breast, ghosting over the tender white skin that has not seen the light of day too many years. Using a firm, smooth touch, with the first few finger pads of her hand, she keeps her fingers flat and together. Her right hand feels her left breast, circular motions, running her entire breast from top to bottom, side to side. She runs her fingers from the her collarbone to the top of her abdomen, and from her armpit to her cleavage, ensuring that she covers the entire area.

She repeats the process with her left hand on her right breast. Up and down. Down and up. Her movements are methodological. Precise. Clinical. She knows what she's looking for. She knows what is there. She closes her eyes, hoping that it had been her imagination, when she reaches the spot on her breast.

She feels the small bulge.

Her eyes fly open and her hands drop to her sides. Her gaze is drawn to to that area on her body. She squints, trying to see the proof of her body's failure,_ the betrayal_, but only seemingly smooth flesh can be seen.

She cups her breast and runs her thumb over the spot, and immediately pulls it away as if she had touched fire (which she has.)

She sighs and pulls her dress closed around her and buttons it up slowly, purposefully. She supposes that she ought to get a second opinion. She supposes that she ought to see Dr Clarkson in the village (sooner rather than later).

She might be a dying woman. One day she will die and the day might be coming sooner than she had anticipated.

* * *

**2\. Beryl**

"You wanted to see me?"

The redhead steps into the housekeeper's sitting room, carefully shutting the door behind her. Mrs Hughes places her pen gently on her desk and nods.

She has rehearsed what she planned on saying many times in her head, but the words felt foreign on her tongue. "It's about a personal matter, Mrs Patmore." She says it like it is a business matter.

Mrs Patmore frowns and takes a tentative step closer to the woman. "Well what is it then?" Her words are seemingly harsh, but her concern shines through brightly.

Mrs Hughes sighs and rubs the sleep from her eyes. "I think I've found a lump," she spits the words out as if they were acid chewing away at her insides.

"A lump?" Mrs Patmore's mouth opens and closes as she tries to come up with an appropriate response. "As in... _a lump_?"

She nods and relaxes against her chair. Now that it was out, it was easier to continue. "On my breast."

Mrs Patmore takes a breath. "Let me see."

Mrs Hughes' eyes widen. "I don't know..."

"Let me see." It is not a request; it is a command.

She sighs and stands, making her way in front of the cook, her friend (_were they really more than just coworkers?_)

Her fingers tremble as they fly over the tiny buttons on the front of her dress and as she further undresses herself. It should be horribly awkward and strange. Instead, it is so incredibly terrifying. She's not worried about exposing herself to Mrs Patmore, and she has never been particularly self conscious. She's worried about what Mrs Patmore will find.

They stand facing each other. Mrs Hughes' eyes are closed, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. She can feel the cook's gaze piercing through her.

"Do you mind?" Mrs Patmore asks tentatively, with a hand in the air.

Mrs Hughes nods. She doesn't need to open her eyes to know what is being asked. She inhales sharply when she feels a cold hand against her skin.

"Sorry," she mutters. Her thumb quickly runs across the housekeeper's breast. She found it almost immediately.

Mrs Patmore pulls her hand away and takes a step back. Mrs Hughes takes it as her cue to get dressed. She opens here eyes, and she knows by the sage look on the other woman's face that she found it too.

Her fingers are trembling and she struggles to perform the stupid task of tying her corset and buttoning her buttons.

It hits her that one day, she will die. It might not be today, it might not be tomorrow, but in a few months... maybe.

Mrs Patmore confirms that it is not in her head. _It's a lump all right._ _There is no point dithering about that. What are you going to do about it?_

She doesn't know.

* * *

**3\. Doctor Clarkson**

She is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed wearing nothing but her skirt. Her stockinged feet barely touch the ground. Dr Clarkson is standing opposite her, a clipboard in hand, scribbling something she doesn't understand but that she knows will impact her greatly. He places it to the side, and he begins his clinical assessment.

He pokes and he prods and he asks stupid questions like "Does this hurt?"

She had thought that it would be strange to be so open with man. Mrs Patmore was one thing, Dr Clarkson another. She finds herself going through the motions. She lays out her concerns, and he replies using big words he learned at medical school. It is all so... detached.

She likes it that way. She likes the facts. Logical. No feelings to muddle her thoughts.

Later, he sits her down, and Mrs Patmore is her witness. She doesn't feel like she is part of her body. Everything is so surreal. She wonders if she should be panicking, but Mrs Patmore manages to do so on her behalf.

Dr Clarkson pulls her to the side, before she leaves. He asks her if she has arrangements... just in case. Because death is something she should think about because one day, she will die. They will not know for a while if it will be from cancer. But she is older (no longer young) and that means that the day is creeping closer and closer to her.

* * *

**4\. Charles**

Her knuckles rap against his door twice before reaching down and slowly turning the doorknob and letting herself in. She doesn't wait for a reply. She enters backwards, gently pulling the door shut. She turns to find Carson alert and confused and sitting up in bed, with a hand hovering over the lamp he just lit.

"Mrs Hughes?" he frowns. She is standing in his room, dressed in her white nightgown and dressing gown. Her hair is tied in a braid the hung over her shoulder. "What on earth are you doing here?"

She steps forward so she is standing in the centre of his room, and he notices that she is not wearing any shoes. "I came to apologize."

"For what?"

She bites her lip and focuses her stare to a spot on his shirt. "For lying by omission. For not telling you about my health concerns."

He swings his legs so they are hanging over the side of his bed and his feet are touching the ground. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to treat me any differently," she sighs. "It seems rather silly now. You did anyway..."

Carson's eyebrow shoots up. "You knew that I knew?"

She nods gingerly. "You were fairly obvious about it," she says meekly.

"You knew that I knew? _And you still didn't tell me_?"

"All I can do now is tell you that I am sorry," she stares at the ground, unable to confront his hurt gaze. She shakes her head and finally looks him in the eye. "Anyway, it's over now. They cut it out and it was benign."

"Yes I know. Mrs Patmore told me." Mrs Hughes' eyes dart to the side and she immediately looks down at her clasped hands. Carson sighs, "But you knew that already, didn't you?"

She hesitates. "I told her to tell you it was benign."

He runs a hand through his grey hair, mussing it further. "How can I be sure that you are not telling me another lie?" he asks softly. His eyes bear into her, and she wants to run away and hide her head in the sand. "How can I be sure that you are not in fact _dying_, and that you lied to spare my feelings and your pride?"

"You have to trust me." It sounds weak, even to her ears.

"I did trust you, Mrs Hughes." His words are not tinged with anger. Rather, they are laced with disappointment. "I trusted that you would tell me if something was bothering you, and you never did."

"I'm sorry." She wrings her hands in front of her, knowing that there is very little she can do to remedy the situation. "How can I fix this?" Fix them.

"I don't know," he sighs. "How can I trust you if you don't trust me?"

She nods and turns on her heel. Her heart was aching for him to understand. She really made a mess of things. He needs to know that she is alright – _not dying_ – and he simply won't believe her words until he trusts her again. Heaven knows how long that will take.

She reaches for the doorknob, when an thought strikes her.

She turns around quickly and marches back to where she had been standing. With shaking hands, she hesitantly starts untying her dressing gown. She has had needles injected, a surgeon's incision... She had bared it all to so many these past few weeks, it hardly seemed inappropriate anymore.

"What on earth are you doing?" He's almost afraid to ask.

"I'm showing you that I am not lying." She lets her dressing gown fall to the floor. She grabs the hem of her nightgown, and knowing where this is going, he immediately covers his eyes with his hand. She pulls it over her head and tosses it aside.

"You're naked," he says from behind his hand. His blunt observation makes her snort. "Why are you naked?"

She takes a step forward and pulls his hand from his face. Her legs are touching his. His eyes remain shut. "Mr Carson, I need you to look at me."

He knows that if he looks straight ahead, he will be confronted with her bosom. "I mean no offense when I say I would rather not."

She rolls her eyes and tells her story anyhow.

"A little over two months ago, I found a lump on my breast." She states the facts bluntly. She reaches to his hand by his side and gives it a squeeze. "At first the results were ambiguous, but ultimately, it was found to be benign." She takes a breath. "A few weeks ago, I underwent a minor operation to remove it as a precautionary measure." She feels him stiffen at her revelation, but she pretends she doesn't notice.

She guides his hand to her breast and places her own hesitant hand on top. "Mr Carson, I need you to see that I am not a sick woman." Her voice cracks and that is his undoing.

Carson swallows the lump forming in his throat and opens his eyes. His gaze fixates on the shadows dancing across her face. He draws an invincible circle with his right thumb, sending a shiver down her spine and causing her to close her eyes. Her hand tightened on his, and she bit her lip, smothering any sound that might have escaped.

Carson finally glances down. His large hand covered her breast almost completely, her smaller hand gripping his last three fingers. He continued to run his thumb in systematic circles across her entire breast from top to bottom, side to side, proving to himself that, yes, there was no lump to speak of. What remained was a red scar on the underside of her left breast– about the width of two nickles – that was in the process of healing.

He pulls his hand from her. Mrs Hughes opens her eyes and drops her arms to her side. She moves to take a step back, but his left arm snakes around her waist keeping her still. With a feather-like touch, he lazily traces the scar with his index finger.

"Does it hurt?" he whispers.

She shakes her head.

"_Did_ it hurt?"

She thinks about lying again to calm his fears, but thinks better of it. "A little."

Carson is both relieved and a little heart broken at her admission. She was always so strong – even when she wasn't strong, she pretended to be. Right in this moment, she trusts him enough to show that she isn't, and sends relief flooding through him.

But he is sorry that she was alone throughout her ordeal. He's sorry that she felt the need to go through it alone. Sure, she told Mrs Patmore, but knowing her, she only told her pieces of the full story. Was there anything he could have done to show her that she could have trusted him? Is there anything that he can do to show her she can trust him now?

So he leans over, and plants a small kiss to the scar. Her breath hitches.

"I'm sorry." His words are simple and full of truth. She doesn't know what he's referring to, but she's sure he is being a martyr. "Don't be."

It occurs to her that they are both being utterly ridiculous with their constant apologies and half truths and lies. They don't have time for this.

Maybe it's the euphoria of the knowledge that she will not die today. And that she likely won't tomorrow, or the day after, or even six months from now.

So she lets herself act completely foolish. Damn the consequences. Nothing could get more scandalous than what had already transpired. So she leans down, and kisses him gently on the lips. He hesitates at first... and she thinks it might have been a mistake. But then he kisses her back hungrily and she is straddling his lap, and tearing at his shirt buttons... Eventually sometime between late night and early morning, she finds herself sneaking back into her room.

She knows that one day she will die.

But she has never felt more alive.


End file.
